Meeting for the First Time, Again
by kkann
Summary: For once, Daxter has no smart remarks, no witty comebacks, no not-so-subtle innuendos- only a hand that can reach for someone that perhaps can't truly be grasped. Fear what you don't know and appreciate what you can't.


**A/N:** Salutations. :D I'm sure five of you thought I was dead from the lovely Jak n' Daxter universe that is fanfiction.  
>Well I am, in a certain way of thinking. This is also a few months old but I neglected to post it up here to my dismay, and after four months of letting it sit in the depths of my harddrive I thought I'd slap it up here and let you have at it. That said, this was written for <strong>Dark Jak Day<strong>, May 13th, 2011 this past year and centered around some good ol' fashioned Jak and Dax bromance.  
>Moving on past that, I think I'm going to attempt to get back into the swing of things here with the ottsel and the Dark Warrior, though I must admit Jedi and lightsaber duels have proven most interesting. . .<p>

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><p><em>What I Said Isn't What I Meant.<em>

Life is easier when you don't have to care.

You spend a lot of time lying to yourself when you try to convince yourself it's not your fault.

But you can tell he's pain as he curls in on himself and all you feel is guilt. You try not cringe when he looks at you, but you flinch each time one of his joints cracks.

You wait for a final blow.

And then you feel guilty waiting for it.

You know it's not going to come, but you spend a lot of time waiting for it anyway. Maybe he is too.

But that does something to ya, y'know? But you can tell it does more to him—obviously, what are you, stupid?—just from the way he tries not to look at you.

And you try not to think about the way he almost killed you.

But in those moments when he hunches over with his head in his hands and moans in a guttural and brutal way you push away all those other thoughts. Your best friend needs you, and you can't do anything about it.

Precursors, how pathetic are you?

You reach out to place a hand—but it's not really a hand now, is it?—on his shoulder—the one that isn't turned away from you—to comfort him and try not to think about how the blood on him might not all be his.

He flinches away from your touch, so you try again.

This time you succeed, but your victory is bittersweet. He seems to lean into your hand, as small as it is. As if everything is perfectly fine.

You're guilty again and feel sick.

You don't let him know that.

You don't say anything because you're not supposed to.

But he's supposed to be your best friend and right now he needs you.

You're not allowed to be afraid anymore; at least not right now.

His knuckles crack and your stomach twists again. He gasps, and you wait for the color to come back to his eyes. It takes awhile, but eventually it does. He won't look at you yet, and you do your best to hold back your full-blown wince when he suddenly screams.

And as abruptly as it began it stops, and the city is momentarily silent again.

He begins gasping for breath and you launch into a swift panic before you realize you don't know what to do.

_Can't_ do, more like. Because so far you've failed at comforting and helping him.

He used to be your anchor in the world—wherever that is or was—but right now you need to be his.

You never were too good with having burdens placed on your shoulders.

You're the comic relief here, and you need to fix this. You aren't supposed to say anything, but right now the silence is killing you and you need to do something before you lose your damn mind. Anything to suppress the thought that this is your fault, because you failed and lied to your best friend.

You lied to your best friend. Real proud of yourself, aren't you?

Purple never was your favorite color. His pallor doesn't help any.

You're stuck in a rut and rational thoughts won't help any because they all lead back to him strap in a chair screaming and you lying to him.

You used to just stretch the truth a little, and now you've crossed that line and jumped over the ledge.

You wonder when you'll hit rock bottom.

Jak, you tell yourself. Jak needs me. Jak needs. . .

Jak needs a lot right now, and you're not so sure you can give it all to him.

He sits on the uneven ground and leans against one of the walls, his face still buried in his hands. You don't let him know that you're not sure if you should look at him or not.

The smoke from the polluted air burns your eyes, but not as much as the tears you don't shed.

You're seventeen years old dammit, and the last thing _Jak_ needs is to comfort _you._

You swallow and reach for your friend again. He doesn't flinch as much this time.

Slowly, his roots return to normal—funny word, isn't it?—and he sighs as something else—are those _horns?—_ fade away.

For the moment, you have good ol' Jak back again.

But Jak's different, and you have to learn to eventually accept that.

You can ignore that for now though.

Jak's not as dangerous as he thinks he is. He's just confused and all you want to do right then is invite him in for a bro-hug.

He doesn't respond at first. Then he gives you a light smack to the back as you swat at his.

You debate saying something.

For once, he beats you to the punch.

"I'm sorry, Dax."

It hits you harder than that last blow from one of the Guards before Jak. . .turned.

You grimace, but mask it with a quick sneeze.

The corner of his lip curls up in a silent chuckle. You feel a short bit of relief, if anything.

"You and me both."

He doesn't smile so much this time, and something in his eyes hardens. His snicker is more forced and faked this time.

You don't point that out, even though it's obvious.

For a moment you wonder if Jak's more afraid of himself than you are.

Now isn't the time though.

You need to ease the tension. Tonight more so than any other.

"You also could use a bath, buddy."

You need to make it more light-hearted though; you're not trying to insult him.

"Mud never was a good look on you."

His throat lets out a rusty chuckle before he slowly makes his way into a standing position. He sways for a moment and you listen to him just breathe. There's a sudden sharp intake and your gaze shoots up from where it was rooted at his feet—away from him, because you feel guilty again—and grace yourself for what you might see.

He has a blank look on his face, and you think maybe there's a small—real—smile playing at his lips.

"Dax, you can see the stars."

At first you're not too impressed with looking at floating balls of gas, but then you realize it's probably been two years since he's had the chance to actually _see_ them.

But you smile anyway.

Instead of saying anything you only shake your head and give the impression of being amused.

He rolls his eyes.

As he begins walking away—back to wherever; you're not really sure where you're going anymore—you stay a few paces behind him, watching his back hunch forward just ever so slightly as you carry on.

He doesn't hear you—or at least you don't think he does—when you murmur to his retreating figure and wonder if he still remembers.

"Happy birthday, Jak."

He doesn't say anything; quietly holds out his arm, offering you a lift because you're too short to keep up.

Maybe it's just you, but his back is a bit straighter and his eyes aren't so hard this time.


End file.
